My thumb hovers over the preview, not ready to expand it. I set the phone down, stare at it, then pick it up again and slide to open.
Trouble
Wish I could have held you for the fireworks. Bet the view would have been better from my lap. When can I take you on a real date?
I type a response, then delete it. Type another, delete that too. Finally, I let myself say what I actually feel.
That sounds nice. When were you thinking?
I hit send and then bury the phone under a couch pillow.
Tomorrow, I will regret this. Or maybe I won’t.
For now, it’s enough to have made a choice, any choice, and to let the loneliness take one quiet step back into the shadows.
***
The next morning, my phone is dead and so am I, but Salem insists on using my ribcage as a launchpad at precisely 6:37 a.m. I roll off the couch and stagger to my charger, plugging it in. It vibrates almost instantly, the queue of texts stacking up.
First up is Nash. Of course it is.
I thumb it open and see:
Trouble
How about Saturday? I’ll pick you up for a fancy dinner. Deal?
I sit cross-legged on my bed, reading it three times.
What’s your definition of fancy?
He replies instantly, as if he’s been waiting all night for my counter.
Trouble
You, in a dress. Me, not in an old band tee. Restaurant with more than four items on the menu. Minimal risk of food poisoning.
That eliminates half the city, you know.
Trouble
I was thinking about that French place in Melrose. The one with the unpronounceable name and the weird chairs.
I type out the name as I remember it: Le Papillon Gris. Mina dragged me there for her birthday last year, and we spent the entire night pretending we understood the wine list. It’s tiny and candlelit, very intimate.
You want to take me out of town for our first real date?
Trouble
Unless we’re not keeping it lowkey anymore?
It makes me giggle, but we are absolutely still keeping it lowkey.
Saturday. 7:00. But I get to choose the music in your car.
Trouble
We’ll be on my bike, actually.
